Tears Of An Angel
by shakespeareia
Summary: Following the destruction of the Opera Populaire, Christine Daae is swept into the pitiless world of french aristocracy as the fiancé of the Vicomte De Changy. Yet amid cold in-laws, jeweled necklaces, and gallons of champagne, the former soprano finds herself still haunted by a lover she knows to be dead... or is he?
1. Prologue

A.N. – This is my baby. It's been a long time coming, but I've finally started posting. This all began when I first read the synopsis to Love Never Dies, and thought "Come ON! This is NOT what would logically happen, and it's not what people want to see! So, here's my take on what truly would have happened after the curtain had dropped on the Opera Populaire.

This is a work based on the 2004 film musical starring Gerard Butler, Emmy Rossum, and Patrick Wilson.

Please R&R!

Rating- This story is rated M for sexual content, adult themes, and some grotesque images. Please turn back if you are underage- though I know that doesn't stop about 90% of you…

Disclaimer –Me not own nothin'. Everything you be seein' is belongin' to Gaston Leroux and ALW.

Prologue

January 1870

Paris, France

Pale light bathed the chamber, dimly illuminating the form of a man, kneeling at the feet of a monkey-music box like the worshipper of a deity. The toy was lovingly crafted, each detail rendered with infinite care by his own hands…

His forest-green eyes were fixed on the small porcelain face, clearly seeing something beyond the hideous visage. A faint tremor shook his body – strange, he'd never suffered from the cold…

"_Masquerade,_

_Paper faces on parade,_

_Masquerade,_

_Hide your face so the world will never find you…"_

The whisper had barely left his lips, when he became aware of a new presence.

She stood immobile in the doorway, the steady rise and fall of her bodice and the scent of soft, living flesh all that discerned her from her waxen counterpart. The silk and lace bridal gown clung to her body, dark curls spilling over her shoulders. A choked breath escaped his throat.

As a little girl, she'd been perfection. Now she rivaled the sun for radiance.

All the years he had devoted to her swept past his eyes – a child sobbing in a chapel, a fragile girl pouring out her voice like wine until the angels themselves wept, a nubile, innocent young woman, sighing and enraptured in his arms…

"_Christine, I love…you…_"

She barely seemed to hear him, all but ignored the three words that had cost him his heart and soul to utter.

Her hand traveled to her finger, and with a rush of pain, she watched his face crumble as she prised away the glittering diamond ring. Lightly as an insect sipping nectar from a bud, she caught his hand and pressed the gem to his palm.

He gazed up at her with a mix of confusion and heartbreak, as she closed his fingers over the ring, and, with a look of pity and apology turned towards the door…

Years later, she never knew, or ever asked, what made her look back.

She only knew it was time enough to watch the façade of power he had built for himself over the years fall to pieces, like the opera crumbling above their heads.

With the fall of those two, perfect tears down his face, every doubt and regret she carried vanished.

She swept back with a rush of silk skirts, and dropped between his knees. Emerald eyes met dark nutmeg, both brimming with unshed tears as she flew forward and claimed his lips passionately.

A sob finally escaped his chest as her long arms wrapped around his shoulders, warmth seeping from her body to his own like blood from a wound… her mouth was soft and inviting, always coaxing him back for more. It was only too easy to forget everything- that the only home he'd ever known was burning to the ground, that her lover had fled into the darkness, that a mob surged through the catacombs, prepared to lynch him. In this world of hatred, cruelty, and prejudice, she was his one source of pure light – of love…

The strength of the embrace soon propelled them over the swan's wing, and into the nest of crimson velvet. The singer felt a gasp against her mouth as she deepened the kiss and slowly reached for the opening of his shirt, her heart hammering like a tabor…

A red rose lay forgotten on the fur carpet, the petals scattered like drops of blood.

Footsteps slapped against wet tile, trickling water illuminated by the light of dozens of torches.

He had barely been employed a week- a workhand in the flies. Now he was splashing through a flooded cellar, his work-knife drawn, ready to join the others in hunting down, trying, and executing a murderer.

"There's the gate!"

With a single frenzied scream, the masses rushed forward, smashing into the porticullis. Hands reached through the bars, shouting, wailing.

"Monster!" "Killer!" "In the name of God-!"

He roared with the others, squeezing his thick arms through the iron grid until they were coated in blood...

Suddenly a new madness seemed to seize the crowd, their onslaught thus halted. Men slammed at the metal with hammers, hardly caring whether they struck iron or flesh… others surged forward, crushing those in front.

He felt the air being crushed from his lungs, there were bodies everywhere, he tried to scream but couldn't… Black spots swirled in front of his eyes, his chest seemed to be caving in…

No one heard the corpse hit the water with a splash. Nor did they care when their shoes scuffed his flesh, marring him until his face was un-recognizable…

"_Oh God…!_"

Her soft moan reverberated about the chamber, as a single tear streamed down her porcelain cheek. The pain lingered a moment or two longer, but vanished quickly, drowned by all other sensations…

His fingers dug into her hips as he trembled like a leaf. It was entirely new, the feeling of flesh on flesh and his body was reaching desperately for something, but as tempting as it was, he didn't want it to end…

She gently ran her fingers through his honey-colored hair, both thick and sparse, and studied his face. He would never have believed her, but at that moment he truly was beautiful.

He felt her move closer- if that were possible- her lips caressing the raw skin stretched over his skull. A moan left him breathless.

She felt soft in his hands, pulsing gently with each throb of her heart. And it was warm, though they had nothing but the candlelight to cover their bodies.

"Christine…"

His voice cut through the cloud of passion that drowned her mind, their eyes meeting as her tiny hands splayed over his chest. Muscle swelled beneath her palms as she hesitantly touched the sensitive flesh at her fingertips. He threw his head back with a cry, her mouth trailing kisses over his exposed throat.

"Christine, _please_…" he gasped, though still uncertain what he was begging for…

Soon the time for words had passed, and all that was left was heat, moans, and liquid. Her tongue found his lips, giving him a taste of joy as it all culminated in a dizzying second heartbeat, emerging exactly where their bodies were connected. The rhythm steadily increased until he was prepared to scream with the not-quite pain of it, driving them nearer and nearer to the precipice. His hands clutched at her auburn curls, the ring glittering like a star on his little finger as the need and passion finally exploded, leaving them floating and breathless.

Their lips met instantly, a warm haze descending over their minds as he retrieved an ivory fur blanket from the floor and wrapped her in it gently, her dark head resting contentedly on his chest…

They lay still entwined, as outside in the cavern the gate began to crack with a triumphant roar.

And together, they greeted the mob as two lovers.


	2. Chapter 1

**A.N. – A thank-you extended to all who took the time to review! And now, we discover what ELSE occurred That Night… ****dramatic music cue****… and maybe get a new look at Christine's life… enjoy!**

Chapter One –

A gasp echoed through the gilded chamber, and Christine awoke with a start.

Her initial thought was to be frightened, but it had not been that kind of dream. It was hardly even a dream, but a memory…

Her body still throbbing in unimaginable places, Christine threw a trembling hand over her eyes, realizing the silk bedclothes had been soaked in perspiration. For a long while she tried to hold herself still, hoping against hope that the rest would keep away, would crawl back into the hidden crevices of her mind, would not haunt her. But of course, it was a futile attempt.

How could she ever forget those last moments, that gaze filled with pure, consuming love and desire as they shared a final moment in each other's arms, their lips meeting.

"Erik…" She had breathed, a pleading note quavering on her tongue. He only smiled gently – the first time she had truly seen him do so – and stroked her hair, murmuring softly –

"It was the Phantom they came to kill."

She had watched silently as he retrieved his clothing, the crowd shrieking death threats as they stumbled clumsily through the lake. Her only movement had been the steady rise and fall of her breast; numb disbelief at what was about to occur leaving her dumb and immobile.

At last, he stood from the nest of velvet, leaning back to run a finger through the little hollow at the base of her throat.

"Fly away, my Angel." He had whispered.

"Never return."

Shaking, Christine lifted a hand to his face, her fingertips brushing each scar. With a last sigh, he kissed her lips gently.

Then he rose, slipped beyond the ebony lace curtain, and was gone.

She had lain still in the bed, trying to comprehend what had happened, before a hellish sound rent the air into fragments…

_Gunfire_…

Christine rolled onto her side beneath the white silk sheets, tears streaming from her dark eyes until the lace pillow was drenched with them. Even now she could hardly bring herself to believe the truth. He couldn't… he simply couldn't be…

Tears spilled afresh, and still her memories did not cease in their torments.

She could only imagine what the motley group of stagehands and policemen had thought of her, swooning in the phantom's bed with only a white fur blanket to cover her body.

She had awoken on a narrow cot, inside what she was told later was the Mary Magdalene Hospital. Looming over her was a be-spectacled with a thinning white beard – a physician, she later learned – Richard Firmin, Gilles Andre, and a pair of grim looking gendarmes. And kneeling by the cot, clutching her hand atop the woolen blankets, soaked, bloody, but alive – was her poor, dear Raoul.

The doctor had peered over her a minute longer, before turning to the small throng of men and announcing, quite dispassionately, that she was innocent no longer. His chilling grey eyes fixed on her with a disapproving stare, as though he expected a promiscuous bat of her eyelashes, while the other men muttered amongst themselves. Raoul had looked for a moment as though his insides had been knocked out, before reaching out to caress her cheek.

" Oh _cheri_…" he had whispered, kissing her gently.

She had wept, with what they all simply assumed to be shame.

Over the next few days, she eventually decided to accept the official version of her story – she had been kidnapped, and the Phantom had forced himself on her in his lair. After all, no one would believe the truth.

Not long after, Raoul had told her of his plans to return to Normandy- and fairly begged her to accompany him. He had smiled at her inevitable reply, and promised that she would be treated like a princess…

Christine twisted her neck 'round to examine the delicate pastoral paintings on the gilded bedstead, felt the silk and lace caressing her flesh. It had been a promise well kept…

A swish of fabric tugged her from her sleep, seconds before sunlight spilled across her face, her eyes watering.

" 'Tis eight 'o clock, Mademoiselle."

Christine sighed and groggily lifted her upper body; cramped muscles stretched loose in a manner both painful and refreshing.

A grey-haired woman in a starched black dress had begun tying back the velvet bed hangings, leaving her sixteen-year old charge fully exposed to the harsh light.

"If you'll pardon my saying so, Mademoiselle, you seem a bit… green, this morning. Would you prefer breakfast on the tray again?"

Christine massaged her temples a moment, her dark ringlets tumbling like a curtain over her sweat-stained face.

"Oh… Oh no, Cossette, thank you… I- I'll go down."

The maid nodded, before briskly tugging back the coverlets and draping her in a pink silk peignoir. As she climbed out of bed, Christine noticed the familiar sensation of queasiness descending over her body, until she wanted to double up and weep on the Persian rug.

Some birds chirped outside the double windows as she sank into the snowy cushions of the chaise lounge, her sallow face reflected back in the golden, standing looking glass. Her already dampened spirits seemed to sink beneath their zenith. She _couldn't_ appear like this, it would be utterly…

Christine started at the touch of a bony hand on her shoulder, before recognizing the servant's musty scent, like dust left to molder inside an aged book.

Her slender legs trembled violently as her nightclothes were lifted over her head, leaving her shivering in the morning air. She could not suppress a shameful blush while the old woman helped her to climb into the copper bathtub, never having been at ease in any state of undress when another was present…

As the chilly water encased her shuddering limbs, her thoughts wandered to the household downstairs. Likely they were all awake by now, awake and clothed.

The men would be seated in the study, brandy and cigars flowing freely from Philippe's fingertips, while Odette commanded the flock of servants with the air of a general surveying his troops. They must think her such a sluggard…

Rushing through her every morning ritual, Christine quickly determined to appear as fresh and becoming as possible. She would not be defeated by her body's ridiculous weakness, not today…

Her footsteps echoed through the hall, reverberating off the tower marble walls and staircase. Golden nymphs and flourishes smiled down upon her, like the gargoyles of Notre Dame beautified.

A gilded corridor seemed to stretch to the east and west for miles, lined with golden candle sconces and cold, unsmiling portraits of past Comtes and Vicomtes, all now entombed within the nearby family crypt.

Christine released a sigh of near relief as she approached the seventh door, a blue and gold liveried footman swinging open the double doors to admit her,

The cream and rosebud carpeted breakfast room was already flooded with light, reflecting off the polished mahogany table and chairs, the yellow-gold silk curtains, the dozens of facets within the crystal stemware.

"Ah, punctual as always, dear…"

Dark eyes shifted their gaze to the velvet settee, a pile of blonde curls rising above the sloped back. Her knees shook helplessly beneath nine layers of fabric, as the lady of the house rose from her perch, a scrap of fine embroidery clutched in her hand.

Although still young, Odette de Changy carried a taste of elegance and grace that most did not dream of until advanced in years. Ice-blonde ringlets sat heaped upon the crown of her head and trailed down the shoulder of her magenta gown, amethyst earrings sparkling against her milky skin. Her blue eyes glittered strangely at the sight of her soon-to-be relation, and as usual, Christine felt her stomach drop deeper and deeper…

"I should expect the gentlemen along shortly." She mentioned crisply, pausing to rearrange the blush colored roses inside the Ming vase on the sideboard.

"State affairs can take an everlasting time to sort out – but I don't suppose you'd have any interest in those matters, being of your station?"

Christine's throat had locked hopelessly; with an effort, she forced the words past her vocal cords.

"N-No, I-I don't suppose I would…"

Before she could stammer out another word, a heavy side door swung open, the emerging figures casting a pair of long, grey shadows onto the buttery yellow rug.

"_Cheri_."

With a wince-like smile, Christine allowed her fiancé to brush a feathery kiss across her cheek, noting the cool softness of his lips to her skin. To her displeasure, the memory of a warm, sensual mouth caressing the most intimate parts of her body drifted lazily across her mind…

"I was becoming quite concerned – why did you not inform me you were unwell?"

He murmured, his fingertips stroking her throat.

Now painfully aware of the several pairs of eyes boring inside her, Christine felt her throat tightening once more…

"I – had not…"

China and cutlery clattered behind her – evidently the staff was laying out the meal.

"Why not send word through one of the servants?" pressed an oaken voice from Raoul's shoulder. "Or perhaps it was some… private matter?"

Like his queenly wife, Philippe de Changy possessed a sense of bearing and stature that was only imbued by years of good breeding. Taller and darker than his brother, the Comte carried every amount of poise and charm that would denote a gentleman of rank, although (it could not be denied) his face bore the somewhat arrogant expression of one who is quite aware of his handsome features, and wears them proudly. On the whole, as Christine had reflected upon their first meeting, a man that every woman should dream to marry, and every girl should be ashamed to know.

Black spots danced hazily in the air around the poor girl, as his grey-blue eyes fixed her with a piercing glare.

"Yes, I- I should have known…"

Oh God, she couldn't bear it, Raoul's increasingly worried gaze, and the focused, piercing stares of the other two… Blood pounded in her ears, and she could hardly breathe.

"Now, now…" Odette crooned in a mothering manner, taking hold of Christine's silk-draped arm and leading her from her brother-in-law.

"She's been ill – indulgences can be made for lapses of etiquette. Truly, my love, " She chided her brooding husband, "Do you think I shall leave her uninstructed for long? You know me too well."

Christine felt a sudden yearning for Raoul, and the small amount of safety that his arms offered. Her future sister-in-law seated her firmly upon a needle-point chair, sweeping into the adjacent seat herself with a rustle of taffeta skirts.

"Come now, dear – you must be ravenous."

A strangled breath forced itself from her throat at the sight of the ornate fare laid before her.

In Paris, the most anyone might hope to breakfast on would be bread and coffee, and if they were fortunate, a piece of rather dry sausage. Yet here before her were slabs of bacon, buns, chocolate, tea, great pyramids of sliced fruit, champagne and orange juice cocktails, and fluffy, frosted pastries.

Her hand shaking, Christine lifted a spoon and dug through the thin shell of a boiled egg –already saturated with spices and, by the scent of it, more than a hint of brandy. Swallowing her first spoonful with difficulty, she gently pushed away the silver egg-cup and turned to the next item before her – clearly some kind of cake, coated with white chocolate shavings. Bracing herself, she lifted the fork to her mouth… Something creamy touched the tip of her tongue, instantly transforming to the consistency of glue. The sickening sweetness left her stomach roiling, until she could bear it no longer.

No, no, she must not appear weak…

"I th- I think I shall go back to my room…"

"Shall I call a servant?" Odette questioned calmly, her fingers hovering over the little porcelain bell on the table-top.

"Oh… no…" Christine breathed, rising slowly from her seat in an attempt to keep her insides steady.

The door seemed to drift further and further into the distance, the nearer she drew to it – it was only a few more steps…

At last her outstretched hand met the door frame, her knees trembling beneath her uncontrollably.

"Christine-!" She heard Raoul protest, and silenced him quickly.

"No… I'm alright…"

It was a complete lie of course, she was violently ill and she wanted to retch, here in the gilded corridor, the servants all staring at her as though she were a monkey escaped from the menagerie…

Christine suddenly became aware of a very curious sensation – the carpeted floor seemed to be rushing up to meet her, blackness swallowing her vision.

A.N. As a clarification, I'm giving the characters the ages of the actors who portrayed them in the film, at the time of shooting. Therefore, Christine is sixteen, Raoul is thirty, and Erik is thirty-four. A little disturbing to us , but not to 1870's France.


	3. Chapter 2

It was sunless here, as though the Lord did not see the necessity of granting His heavenly light to a place so rank.

Erik hardly blamed him.

Another brutal stab of pain shot through his veins, accompanied by that ceaseless ache. He supposed it was only fitting – if a demon reached Heaven, he must make recompense in Hell.

And it surely had been Heaven he had achieved two months ago, the memories still seared into his tortured mind; white hands riding his body, burning flesh to burning flesh, dark curls cascading through his fingers…

She had heaped an abundance of passion upon him – and he had left her behind.

As he had slipped past the lace tapestry, he had heard her tears – born of grief or love he didn't know… He had almost considered turning back…

"_Murderer!"_

The cry had gone up, and the crowd surged forward, thirsting for blood.

He had had barely seconds to spare. With a burst of desperation, he had lunged for the mirror, his shoulder smashing through the glass like pasteboard – the minute the gendarmes released a volley from their rifles. Most of the bullets had ricocheted off the gilded frame, or merely cracked the remaining glass… Most of them.

The tunnel to the alleys had been carved years ago, a necessary escape route to the dredges of society. He scoffed humorlessly. Let them find him here. Here, in the pit, surrounded by the outcasts of Paris – pickpockets displaying illicit ware from the lining of ill-fitting jackets, half-crazed beggars and urchins, garishly dressed pimps and whores at every turn. He was no different, only a ragged fugitive with nothing but the ring on his finger and his wretched life to his name.

His first few years on Earth had taught him that human life was cheap – particularly of those that did not meet the world's standards. They were all praying he would die silently in this hole – out of sight.

A thick knot formed in his throat, quite unbidden, a tear clearing a salty path through the crust of dirt, as he beheld the glittering stone riding his knuckle – his one, aching reminder…

Gradually, Erik felt his gaze drawn above the ring, to the once white rags that swathed his arm, now mottled with crimson stains.

Agony pierced him again like a dagger to the palm…

He had borne physical pain before, having been on the receiving end of a whip so often as a child. It had been brief, sudden - not this relentless throb with each pulse of his heart, pumping the blood against the hole in his forearm.

Closing his hand over the flow with a shuddering groan, Erik let his head fall back against a stack of rotted crates.

God, it was humiliating – the Phantom, feeling faint at the sight of his own blood…

"Oh, that 'un?" Croaked a harsh voice. Erik cracked his eyes open, catching a glimpse of a passing hag muttering to her companion.

"I shouldn't worry dearie – if that arm don't kill 'im, 'is brain will…"

He groaned softly, the fragile skin of his malformation grating against the uneven bricks. A carriage rattled somewhere nearby…

If only he could die, now… If only….

* * *

It had long been the practice of the French aristocracy, that any event – from a birth to a death, and all in between – was marked by a social gathering of the grandest kind.

At least, so it seemed to Christine.

The carriage bounced along the cobblestone road, the azure velvet window drapes closed against the stench of the passing alleyways.

Not that it particularly improved matters, she thought to herself, as the Comtesse's friend appeared to have bathed in some kind of heavy, exotic perfume.

"So your mother, dear, " Michele` continued to prattle, as she had almost from the moment they left the estate.

"She was a parisenne`?"

Christine swallowed hard, a finger playing with the gauze ribbon of her swan feather bonnet.

"Y-yes. Ameil`e du Pont."

"How odd. I've –"

"You wouldn't recall her, dear." Odette cut in gently.

"Ameil`e du Pont was well noted for her talents on the stage."

Both women turned their eyes to the girl in pink satin, her tiny, gloved hands trembling.

"Her daughter seems to have inherited her skill, truly. You should have seen her in last year's run of La Boehme, Michele`, she was utterly charming."

Later, Christine realized she ought to have noticed the icy edge to Odette's tone, but found herself distracted by the lurching of the carriage – indeed, her insides almost seemed to be shifting…

The duchesse's eyes narrowed as a cat-like smile spread across her heavy face, showing far too many teeth.

"Fascinating."

Trying to avoid the woman's gaze, Christine turned herself to the window, the slums and alleys giving way to a multitude of the fashionable enterprises that Paris was famed for.

"Surely you recall that great scandal at the Populaire not two months ago? The madman in the cellars? Miss Daae could give you a firsthand account."

"Truly?" Michele` stared at the sixteen year old like a hawk inspecting a prospective meal.

"But all of Paris heard of Le Fantome – tell me dear, was he really a living corpse?"

_Not this memory… Not this… _

_Standing on a wooden bridge – above the world – amid scarlet silk, glowing flames… A broad, smooth skinned hand lay upon her body, in that soft expanse between her throat and her breast. No one had touched her there, no one… He infused her with warmth, made her flesh tingle…_

_And then – and then – God, how could she have been such a little fool?! One single, rash action, and she had felt all pretense of trust evaporate between them, only confusion and hurt written on his poor face in those first moments…_

"No."

Both women stared at her, startled by the ferocity of her reply.

"There was no basis to any of those foolish rumors, I – he was no different from any other man."

Christine felt a shiver pass through her body, a growing sensation of uneasiness welling up in the pit of her belly.

"To be sure." Odette murmured, straightening her fur tippet with a calculating stare.


End file.
